


We're (broken) People

by duplighoul



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplighoul/pseuds/duplighoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete doesn't remember last night. Is it better that way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're (broken) People

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be posted on january 1st, but procrastination (sims 3) hit and, well.  
> enjoy!

Pete’s eyes open, bleary against the darkness in their bedroom. His head is pounding, can feel his eyes pulsate against his temples. He would groan but blinking in itself hurts, and groaning would hurt more so, he blinks.

Conscious thought hits him like a sack of bricks and, despite his best efforts, he groans.

Being awake for forty-five consecutive hours, although not the longest he’s went without sleep, is never fun. The remaining hours of Pete’s awareness were spent fighting with Patrick about – about god knows what.

Pete vaguely remembers the night before and what he does remember (plate’s crashing on ceramic floors, glass shattering against plastered walls, a lot of yelling) hardly helps the throbbing in his temples and the sharp pain behind his eyes.

Pete remembers Patrick being mad at him for something and for being stubborn. Or maybe Patrick was mad at him because _he_ was being stubborn for something? Was Patrick stubborn for something? Was he even the one _angry_?

The details are a little hazy. This time he can’t suppress his groan, squinting into the darkness as if it’s hiding secrets from him. Pete can only think, ‘ _What happened last night?_ ’

Pete turns over and, instead of feeling silk sheets like he expected to, feels warm skin which takes him by surprise. He quickly jolts back and fumbles for the lamp on the nightstand. He turns the switch a few times before light flashes into the room and blinds Pete temporarily.

He blinks away the dark spots clouding his vision and twists his upper body to look at whoever’s next to him. He feels panic and uncertainty crawl up his spine for a split second before he sees that it’s Patrick. Pete doesn’t even have to check his face to know that it’s Patrick. The anxiety that was bubbling in his stomach settles into something warm and familiar, because, who else would it be? Of _course_ it’s Patrick.

Pete deflates with relief and feels his eyelids droop a little. He sighs and checks the electronic clock in front of the lamp and, to his despair; the glowing red betraying numbers read “11:00 AM”. He decides to wake up now instead of later.

When he walks out of their bedroom, past the hall and into the living-slash-dining room, he knows he made the right decision.

Broken wine glasses, cracked plates, shattered cups litter the floor, the dining table, and kitchen counters. Pete feels the color drain from his face and spill onto the floor. The anxiety hits like a punch to the gut and the question remains: ‘ _What happened last night?_ ’

Pete carefully tip-toes across the kitchen to a supply closet he previously said would have no use. He opens it and thanks every deity he can think of (and Patrick,) when he finds a broom and dustpan.

He spends the next hour and a half sweeping up the shards of white porcelain and the remaining pieces of glass that once occupied cheap wine and, when Patrick and Pete didn’t want to do dishes, other drinks.

When he’s done, he looks outside the living room windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling. His feet are cold from the unforgiving kitchen tiles, the soles of his feet aching and sore from pacing back and forth, bending and pushing against his weight.

He shuffles back into the kitchen and digs into a few cupboards at random. Patrick always tried organizing them, lecturing Pete time and time again, reminding him to put things back into their proper cupboard. But, as usual, Pete failed to listen. He hunched his shoulders a little at the thought.

‘ _Why don’t I ever listen?_ ’

He’s looking for their hot chocolate maker that Patrick’s mom bought them as a housewarming gift, and Pete really regrets being so careless. He’s still looking in cupboards when he notices, from the kitchen window that resides above the sink, it’s snowing.

He checks a corner cupboard and finds one-fourth of the hot chocolate maker and sighs. Pete doesn’t have the patience to keep looking so he stuffs the piece he found back in the cupboard. He leans upward and lazily drags his feet toward the coffee maker. It’s already assembled; parts in correct places and all - it just needs to be plugged in. He plugs it in and hits ‘ON’, coffee grind previously inserted.

Pete winces as the comfortable (eerie?) silence is broken by the whirring and humming, and hopes he remembered to shut the door behind himself when he left their room.

To pass the time, Pete does an once-over of the apartment for glass and broken shards of porcelain. Last night is coming back in waves; however they come back foggy and splotched. He doesn’t remember specifics but he and Patrick were most likely arguing about the New Year’s party they were supposed to go to.

Pete thinks he told Patrick he didn’t want to go, or that they couldn’t go, something about the weather, maybe?

The headache is coming back to him, harsh, blunt nails digging in his brain and he groans. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

Pete does feel heavy with guilt, and when the coffee machine alerts Pete that the coffee is done he grabs Patrick’s favorite coffee mug, thankfully untouched from last night’s fight, and a plain white mug for himself. By now Pete can recite Patrick’s coffee order in his sleep; he does this mechanically as he wonders when Patrick will wake up. It’s nearing one in the afternoon.

Pete sets Patrick’s mug on a coaster and sits on the couch placed at an angle towards the T.V. He fumbles for the remote and turns on the T.V when he finds it. He quickly sets down his mug on another coaster, frowning at his hand. It hurts from the scalding temperature; and Pete would rather like the rest of his body at a warm temperature instead of the slight numbing feeling resting in his arms and legs.

He’s channel-surfing, leaving the screen on a program for half a second before his interest is lost. He leaves it on a rerun of ‘Friends’ and, moments later, hears the familiar creak of their bedroom door as it opens. He tries to keep his composure together as he hears Patrick slowly walk down the hall.

Pete quickly reaches for his mug and brings his legs to his chest, holding the mug in front of his face like it will make him invisible.

Patrick sniffs, smells the coffee probably, and heads into the kitchen before stopping. He turns around and pads towards the living room. Pete can see him, sort of, out the corner of his eye. Patrick’s wearing an old t-shirt, one Pete never really liked which meant Patrick wore it any chance it could. It’s larger than him, though, and its length covers part of his lower abdomen. He’s also wearing boxer shorts.

Pete wants to ask if he’s cold but Patrick sits near the armrest on his side of the couch, and in that moment Pete has never wished for a loveseat more.

Patrick leans forward and grabs his mug, brings it to his lips and takes a tentative sip. His legs are placed politely in front of himself, not touching, but not an obnoxious space apart. His right arm is on his lap, almost a perfect representation of laid-back and relaxed if Patrick’s posture wasn’t so stiff from the events of the previous night. His eyes don’t watch the T.V, but stare at the space in front of it.

Pete wants to cry; he wants to _talk_ , not yell because his headache would kill him before Patrick does, and he wants this fight to be over because it’s New Year’s Day and he doesn’t want to remember this: quiet mumbling on the T.V blanketed by the loud, tense silence engulfing them both. He doesn’t want to remember the depressing grey skies with their pearls of snow escaping their grasp.

Pete decidedly lets his right arm fall unceremoniously into the canyon of nothing and everything between himself and Patrick. He hopes the action will break down the awkward barrier surrounding them.

His heart pounds loudly in his ears, he’s convinced Patrick can hear it, heat spreading across his face. Above the thump-thumping of his heart he can hear Patrick sip his coffee like nothing’s wrong, which leads Pete to think that the fight was a dream for a split second before dismissing the thought entirely.

Pete feels years younger than he is, feels like a four year-old whose done wrong and is shuffling his feet in front of his parents. Mumbling an apology would further amplify the feeling, so he swallows coffee instead. He isn’t paying attention to the T.V anymore as he’s carefully watching Patrick from the corner of his eye instead.

Patrick is, too, drinking coffee, but now it appears he’s watching T.V. Pete struggles with himself, legs starting to hurt in their position. His hand is burning, but not as badly as before. The coffee is a few degrees above room temperature – Pete sips dutifully before it turns to a gross state of lukewarm.

Patrick, however, is done his coffee and as he gets up to place his mug in the sink, Pete feels weight settle above his heart and on his shoulders. He feels stupid, _so stupid_ , but before he pushes his legs down and walks back to their room (or worse their empty spare room,) Patrick comes back and sits right against Pete, back to his side. He grumbles something Pete can’t hear because his face is pressed against the fabric of the couch and before Pete can ask him to repeat, he nuzzles his head there, shifting to get a more comfortable position against Pete and the couch.

Pete immediately jumps into action; he sets his cup down on the coaster and wraps an arm around Patrick. They’re lying there, chest to back, and Pete can feel every intake of breath Patrick takes. The turn of events is sudden and unexpected and Pete finds it all overwhelming. Is he forgiven?

He’s clinging to Patrick, leg hooked around him – and Pete realizes maybe they should move, or he might fall, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment so he rubs his nose against Patrick’s hair instead.

“You need a shower,” Pete says accidentally. He tenses slightly, but when he feels Patrick’s shoulders shake as he laughs, a tight ball of nerves slowly begins to unwind.

Patrick is shifting and turning (Pete untangles their legs with a pout,) and as he looks into Pete’s eyes, they appear to be analyzing them. Then Patrick’s lips turn upward at the corners, one higher than the other.

Pete raises his eyebrows and nods his head in the direction of the hallway. Patrick blinks and is confused for a moment before nodding. Pete turns to stand up, but he’s on the edge of the couch and then he turns he lands on the floor with a grunt.

“Ow,” he mumbles against the carpet. He hears Patrick scoff and turns to see him sitting on the couch casually; leaning forward, hands pushing against the cushions. He’s looking at Pete with a fond smile on his face and, yeah, Pete thinks he’s forgiven.

When they’re lying in bed together, after Patrick helps Pete to his feet and holds his hand the walk back to their room, atmosphere much more warmer than before, Patrick’s still holding his hand when he says “Sorry for being such a–” but Pete kisses him into silence.

“It happened, past tense.” Pete kisses Patrick again. He lets go of Patrick’s hand and climbs on top of him. His elbows are touching Patrick’s shoulders, forearms on the sheets.

It should be uncomfortable, Pete could work to find a less awkward position but he really doesn’t want to.

“I don’t even _remember_ ,” Pete adds as an afterthought.

Patrick laughs (he can feel the air push past his lips when he laughs, it’s the greatest thing at that moment,) a little uncomfortably, says “You did have a bit to drink last night.”

His arms are around Pete’s neck, resting there as Pete hovers above him.

Pete kisses him again.

He isn’t sure how, but Pete can feel bad vibes emitting from Patrick. Not ‘I’m-angry-at-Pete-for-being-stupid’ but ‘I-feel-really-horrible-about-something,’ so Pete gives him a look.

Patrick blinks at the sudden change but stares into Pete’s eyes.

“Stop.” Pete says. Patrick’s eyebrows furrow, but before he says anything Pete interrupts, “Look, I don’t remember last night. Whatever we did already happened and I don’t hate you. Do you hate me?” Pete stares at Patrick until he shakes his head slowly. “Okay.” Pete kisses him – tries to, anyways.

Patrick moves his head, says “Really? Just like that?”

Pete frowns and successfully kisses Patrick. He reels back and looks in his eyes again. “Yes. Okay?”

Patrick smiles (there’s no happiness behind it – maybe it’s trapped in his throat? Pete will have to bring it out again) and says, a little reluctantly, “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is not obligatory, but welcome  
> thanks for reading ♥


End file.
